“Do you mean Helen Layton?” Margaret’s syllables might have been so many mortal daggers.
“Yes.”
“Is David still in love with her?”
“Yes.”
“And she with him?”
David Hume broke in:
“Yes, Rita. She has been faithful to the end.”
A very forcible Italian oath came from Capella as he passed through the window and strode rapidly out of sight, passing to the left of the house, where one of the lines of yew trees ended in a group of conservatories.
Margaret was now deadly white. She pressed her hand to her bosom.
“Forgive me,” she sobbed. “I do not feel well. You will both be always welcome here. Let no one interfere with you. But I must leave you. This afternoon—”